The Lady of the House

It is a dream for many for many writers to be able to live in the stories they tell. To be able to converse with their characters and touch the things that they can conjure up in their head so they might accurately articulate what it is that they are trying to convey to their beloved readers. A science fiction author would love to reside in his spaceship, writing about the stars he can see up close. Every Tolkien or Lewis would jump at the opportunity to live in their Middle Earth or Narnia, and so on.

To many who have attempted to pick up the pen, it is only a dream. But for me… Well, it was a reality. I never expected to actually be an author who had the privilege of being able to say that, but it had become not only a reality, but also a luxury. Quite unexpected, and admittedly somewhat frightening at first, but now that I look back on it, a luxury.

It was after I published my second bestseller A Haunting Near Missouri that I made enough to be able to buy the house of my dreams. Ever since I was a teenager, I had had my eye on this twice-renovated, out-of-the-way manor across the river from my childhood home in Philadelphia. It looked like a lot of the gothic, mysterious mansions in my head when I wrote short horror or murder mysteries.

She was titled The Westfold. Previous owners had had her renovated on the inside several times to keep up with modern interior trends, but the outside was perfectly untouched. Grey stone, with black roofing and statues of angels and demons all around the gardens amongst a sea of green grass and trees.

I wasn’t sure why my agent was able to secure the manor at such a good price, but I raised no objections when Westfold was finally mine. Perhaps it was because of the many, many interior decorating projects that taken place, or the mold in the basement. Or perhaps it was because of Miss Abigail Trotter.

--

I don’t remember who noticed who first, but my first month in the manor I began to hear strange noises coming from the halls and main living room. Nothing alarming, but there was a mysterious sense of not being alone when I moved in. Probably nothing remarkable, I thought. If there was a stranger that had broken in, surely my German Sheppard named Rudolph would eat them, right?

But then, near the end of summer, he began to have this feeling as well. He began barking at nothing, yet in the direction I was hearing things. He became restless at times. Perhaps I should invest in some home security if what I’m sensing is an eventual break-in.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I began to see her. A woman, mid-thirties, dressed in a plain black dress, with a look of confusion. It was always a quick glance, but it was enough to drive a sane man to the doctors. Was this some spirit come to haunt my new home? Or was I perhaps haunting hers?

It was enough that I eventually resorted to looking up the histories of the house. There were so many owners that even this task became tedious. The thought of a ghost being in this house was something of a disturbance and yet delightfully ironic I thought, considering I had made my fortune telling ghost stories.

I even stooped low enough to hire a “ghostbuster” I found on Craigslist to come find whatever was driving me slightly insane. She informed me that she could not pick up any “energy” in my perfectly normal house, charged me a hundred dollars and promptly left.

After that, I told myself to “man up”. The woman in these little hallucinations were probably a byproduct of my insomnia and I needed to rest more, and the noises were just the house settling in. I had books to write, and this ghost-hunting nonsense was hindering my work.

At least, that is what I told myself until I finally saw her.

It was near New Years and I had just returned from a week at my parent’s house for the Holidays. Rudolph was ecstatic to be home again, and I was feeling inspired to continue my next book for the rest of the week.

In a truly Dickens-esque fashion, I was hammering away on my laptop by the fire as Rudolph slept in the corner in my favorite chair. I was about to pour myself another round of bourbon when I heard the front door open at nine o’clock at night of all times. I looked over at Rudolph, who continued snoring, even when a distinct woman’s voice called out very sheepishly “Hello?” from the main hall. I shut my laptop and went to welcome my… Guest? Intruder?

I couldn’t think of what to say when I rounded the corner and saw her there. No more hiding in the corner of my eye. There she was. Nothing frightening, until she screamed at me. She looked as if she had seen a ghost, no pun intended, and began to flee. She was shouting something like “I’m sorry!” as she ran, though that old-fashioned dress perhaps hindered her a bit. I was frozen in shock for a moment before I ran after her, but she was gone by the time I made it out the door. Rudolph continued snoring in the other room.

That night I did not sleep. All I could think about was her face as she turned to flee. What kind of spirit was this? Would she now be gone since she fled? Why wasn’t Rudolph able to sense her and I was?

I didn’t write for days. Anything I could conjure in my head seemed too flimsy compared to what I had just seen. The literary career of Peter M. Ford had come to a grinding halt. For those of you wondering, that career was only two bestsellers and a few short stories. Also, the M in my name is Matthew, for the rest of those wondering.

One night, when I thought I could finally sleep a little, now that I had unpacked my revolver (although, I was not sure what good that it would do against a ghost, assuming she should be vengeful) I was awoken to the sound of footsteps gently walking towards the door. Again, my faithful guard dog was happily chasing rabbits in his slumber, so I got up with my trusty side-arm, shakier than a Don Knotts character, and opened the door to look. There she was again.

Same uniform, but she was carrying a cross with her that she held up once she saw me. I raised up my cross, but it carried a few .45 rounds instead of Jesus.

“Spirit!” she called to me “Please, have mercy on me!” She said, backing away slowly as she spoke “What are you doing in my house, spirit? Will you please leave me?”

“Spirit?” I asked in astonishment as I somehow retained my composure “I am no spirit… This… This is my house. Who and what are you?”

“I am Abigail Trotter… And you are a spirit!” She said as she held the cross up higher “Please, I do not wish any harm, I would just like my house back… Please.”

I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there, shaking again as she suddenly screamed once more and fled back downstairs.

“Wait!” I called as Rudolph stormed into the halls. This time he must have sensed something because he took off after her. By the time I caught up, she was gone again.

Another sleepless night. Not in fear, but in pondering. So, she was afraid of me, I concluded. She called me spirit and fled when I appeared.

Was there a plot twist that I was dead somehow and she was alive?

The next night, I once again slept with my gun. But I was awoken by the sound of my piano in my study being played. Chopin, Nocturne in E flat, I think.

I got up, but left my gun and my sleeping bodyguard as I followed the music down the stairs and into the study.

There she was again. Playing with grace and elegance against a fire I thought I had put out. She saw me come in, but kept playing. A tear welling in her eye as she played the ending. Then she looked at me as I turned on some more lighting.

“That was beautiful.” I said. She nodded before she replied in a proper English accent

“Thank you… I haven’t played in a long time.”

There was silence, and then she spoke. “Who are you, spirit?”

 “I… Am Peter.”

“Peter” she said as she stood up slowly “Tell me, why are you in my house?”

“Well… I own this house, miss… Trotter, wasn’t it?”

“It is… What do you mean you own this house, Peter?”

I explained to her that I had bought the manor almost a year ago. She asked for proof, so I led her to my safe and showed her the deed to the estate in my name. She looked downtrodden at the sight of it and began to walk away, when she turned and said

“Since there has been a sale without my knowing it, I think I will challenge the legality of this transaction. Until then, I suppose I shall say welcome to my house… But I believe you to be a ghost, so I shall also say… Please behave, spirit, or else I shall call a priest. Goodnight, Peter.”

After that, I rarely saw her. She would appear in the corner of my eye again, but she wasn’t looking for me anymore. One time I saw her walking around the gardens as if she was reminiscing some distant memory of walking with a lover through those pathways.

It was still unsettling, so I was rarely home. I was always looking for excuses to travel and stay in hotels. I was uncomfortable having people over, should she suddenly appear to them as well. Still, how whimsical was this, I would think. A horror author has met a ghost and it lives with him.

One day, I came home from a conference and found her reading one of my books by the fireplace. Rudolph was, as usual, sleeping on the couch, but he had barked at her enough that I figured he knew she was there. She closed the book and looked up at me.

“Whoever wrote this is pure rubbish if you ask me. I wonder why I even finished this!” she said, looking it over.

“Um… I wrote that.” I told her, trying not to laugh at the thought of a ghost criticizing my work

“What? I thought your name was Peter.”

“It is. Matthew Ford is just my pen name.”

She was suddenly embarrassed. “Oh… Well, forgive me, spirit… I perhaps spoke too quickly…”

“What did you not enjoy about it?”

“Well” she started “First of all, do people really take the Lord’s name in vain that often? Whatever time you’re from sounds adulterous, honestly. Also, If the victim hadn’t had sex with that man in first place she wouldn’t have been in the room where she died, so I suppose there is a lesson on behalf of chastity to be had there… But what on earth is a… Cell…  Cell phone? Magic devices where you can talk to others? That was never explained in your book, Peter, and I’m afraid many other readers will have the same questions if you decide to publish this.”

“Perhaps I shall not publish it at all, if you think it’s that bad” I said as I chuckled.

She suddenly looked as if she took offense “Oh no, Peter! Truly the wording is magnificent, and you have a gift about you! Those are just my thoughts on it. I suppose you being a spirit from a different time in an alternate reality I should temper my expectations.”

We talked until Rudolph needed to be let out. She followed me as I watched the dog run towards some trees to do his business. I told her that the book she had just read was the book that had made me enough money to buy her house. She told me that her family grew up in The Westfold, but was unsure where it got its name from.

Once Rudolph finished, I walked over to clean up after him. As I bent down with a bag I heard her ask

“What are you doing?”

“Picking this up and throwing it away.”

“How disgusting! You actually touch your animal’s droppings? Gracious, you are an odd ghost.”

She went back inside. I waited until she was a good earshot away before I finally laughed.

Perhaps having a haunted house wasn’t that bad.

--

The rest of the year was like that. She would pop up when I was making dinner or cleaning my car, and share her thoughts on the world, or my work. A lot of her news she wanted to share with me was stuff we would call history.

“I still can’t believe that President Lincoln was assassinated!” she told me once as I bathed Rudolph in the laundry room “At least they brought justice to Mr. Booth, that devil of a man!”

I tried to act surprised as I got the towel. How dare he shoot the President.

“I can promise you this” she went on “It won’t happen again! The President is too important to allow a second assassination.”

She never came out much when I did have guests over. My childhood friend Emily would come over to watch scary movies like when we were kids (although, nothing was really that terrifying to me anymore, but for her sake I went along with the spooks) and she would occasionally cooked dinner. As soon as she left, she would almost immediately appear again.

“You really should call on her with more intent, Peter” she would say “I think she’s lovely.”

Great. Now I was living with a ghost who was becoming my mom.

“She’s a friend, Abigail. Besides, she would not approve of me after I’ve lived with you.”

“Oh, hush. It would never work between us” she would say with a laugh. “After all, Peter dear. You’re a ghost and I’m not.”

It was funny, but she believed that. She would call me the ghost and act as if I was the one who had invaded her home. I often wondered if I should try to correct her, but I thought it too funny to solve now. So I went along with it until one day I came down for breakfast and she was sitting at the table, looking more transparent than normal.

“Good morning, Miss Trotter.”

“Peter” she said as I reached for a mug “I’m the ghost, aren’t I?”

I didn’t know what to say. She had spoken the truth, and it seemed to sting a bit.

“It’s alright, Peter. I’ve had my suspicions for quite some time now. Not many people notice me, and they usually leave if they do. Everything in the house is strange and I don’t hear from my friends anymore. You’re not the ghost. I am.”

“Miss Trotter” I said

“Please, Peter. We are friends. Call me Abigail.”

“Abigail…”

She did not look well. Something was wrong, as if this knowledge had affected her existence.

She got up from the chair and walked solemnly to the hallway, noticing every detail around her.

In her mind, this had always been her house, but the way she gazed upon the archways and wood flooring looked as if it was her first time seeing it. Then she began to walk away. Before she left she said this to me

“Be sure to call on that girl, Peter. I think she’s lovely. And please, remember to pick up your dishes. After all, there’s not a butler here anymore. Father fired him years ago.”

She left. I didn’t hear any doors open like the night I first saw her. I looked around the corner and was greeted by an empty hallway.

--

That was three years ago. My wife Emily is the only person I’ve ever told about Miss Trotter, except for you, dear reader.

To this day I’ve no idea who she really was, as my efforts to find out more about her have been fruitless. There was a John Trotter who owned the house during the Civil War, but there is no mention of a daughter or a wife. Truly, she’s gone.

Wherever she went, dear reader, I hope she knows she’s welcome to return anytime she likes. I hope she knows she was beautiful, and was kind, and is missed. No one has played the piano in years, and my updates on the Civil War come from Wikipedia.

I also hope she doesn’t see the dishes I still leave out.

As for me, I still write as you may know. My critics are astonished at what they call my ability to revive the gothic horror genre. Despite this, my agent is unhappy with the drift away from modern horror and crime and has begged me to write something like A Haunting in Missouri again, but truth be told... Hauntings aren’t what they used to be for me.

Hauntings are now just fond memories of someone I used to know from a different time.

Here, in The Westfold there used to be a ghost named Peter Ford who accidently haunted a girl named Abigail.

Now, it is her turn to haunt this house by her absence.